


thank you ma'am

by orphan_account



Category: Twelve Forever (Cartoon)
Genre: Hateworms, Other, Shapeshifting Genitalia, Tagged for dubious consent, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 03:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20351266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: in this fanfic you get to have sex with the buttwitch and she turns you into a monster





	thank you ma'am

**Author's Note:**

> sorry im trying to delete it sorry

You are in a lot of trouble, you decide. The woman in front of you is a good head taller than you, resplendent with an excess of limbs, and she has a tail. It's whipping back and forth animatedly as she looks at you through very narrow, displeased eyes.  
  
“Curious, are you?” She doesn't sound angry, just bored. “Why don't you get on with whatever you came here for? Or at least take a picture. Maybe it'll get you some likes on one of those insipid social media websites.”  
  
You take a deep breath. It catches somewhere in your stomach and hardens there, then slowly ekes out through your clenched teeth. God, she's cute. She's also very mean. She hasn't said a single nice thing to you since you fell in a huddle of limbs onto the outdated and unnervingly comfortable plush bed she was reclining on.  
  
“I don't even know who you are,” you blurt, “I feel like there should be like, an introduction, or...something...what are you doing.”  
  
She's taking off her clothes. Clothes is an odd word for it, implying the presence of multiple layers instead of the amorphous, latex-like material that hugs every limb. And she has a few of those to spare, too. Your eyes roam over her extraneous arms as she slips off her...gloves? Are they gloves, when they look so inseparable from the rest of her skin, when they meld so perfectly to the pointed tips of her fingers? And she isn't really slipping them off either, more like peeling, shedding, like she's casting off an outer layer and replacing it with fresh green skin.  
  
You are still gawping at her in this partial state of undress when her foot connects firmly with the side of your face.  
  
“Ow!”  
  
“You're staring again. And as for the introduction...”  
  
She pauses. The alien material is clumped in a neat rim around her waist, meaning you can see all of her naked torso if you want or dare to, but from the hips down she's still cloaked in red. You risk a look at her face. She taps her cheek with one long finger and 'hmm's loudly, looking deep in thought, before she rolls her eyes and looks disgusted to have wasted the effort.  
  
“Ma'am is fine.”  
  
“That's a title, not a name--”  
  
She rolls her...are they pants? All the way down in one drastic movement that makes you feel a bit light-headed to watch. Then, without even giving you a pause for breath, she perches on the end of the dated-looking bed and spreads her legs. You are taken so aback by this brazen movement that you don't even realize that's what you're looking at for a moment. And then, you realize you still don't know what you're looking at. She's kind of...stirring as you look at her, pulsing with promise but refusing to commit to a concave or a convex curve.  
  
You blink.  
  
“I...I mean...I...”  
  
“Oh, me, me, me. You haven't shut up about yourself since you crashed down here and woke me up. I don't care one smidgen about YOU, if that wasn't clear.”  
  
She looks down at herself and rolls her eyes again, slower than the first time. An elegant expression of irritation. She slaps her own thigh and her flesh shudders. A deep, slick seam wefts between her legs, capped with a pert nub of dark green. Before your eyes it grows dark and dense with a coat of forest-green fur that curls into tangles about her recently conjured entrance. She raises her eyebrow at you, then sniffs. And then she grins.  
  
“That's a good reaction, though,” she says, more to herself than you.  
  
You blink and stare at her vagina, which definitely didn't exist five seconds ago, and feel cold sweat itch at the back of your neck. She sniffs the air again. Her grin gets wider.  
  
“Well, come on, we don't have all day.”  
  
You look at her again and see a palm coming for your face. Her fingers dig into your jawline, your cheeks, and tug you forward, push you down. You are on your knees. She smells rich and tantalizing and upsetting all at the same time, which is probably what makes your head twitch backwards – but no luck. You just smack into another of her palms, which is pushing you forward.  
  
“S-sorry,” you stammer, “but don't you think we should, I don't know, at least have d-dinner first or...”  
  
“Oh, please.” She glowers down at you. “Are you telling me you _don't_ want to stick your tongue in there? Grow up.”  
  
You swallow your own spit and acknowledge that she has a point. Up close and personal you have to concede something you've already conceded to yourself a thousand times over by now: whoever this weird, form-shifting, multi-limbed woman is, you are interested in her. You want very much to stick your tongue into her, and maybe other parts of yourself, come to think of it.  
  
You poke your tongue out. She keeps her pupil-less eyes trained on your face until you make contact with the soft, pliant skin between her thighs, and then she tips her head back the tiniest bit. You take that as incentive to keep licking. You lick her as hard as you can, unable to process anything but the vague citrus taste of her against your lips and the faint _shhhk-shhhk_ of her feet drawing lines in the furred carpet.  
  
After you've shown willing, she props herself back with one pair of arms and leaves you to it. She doesn't sigh or moan, which is disappointing. She just lets you work away at her hole until your tongue starts to feel numb and your lips are chapped with bitter juice. Her head tilts forward when you crane your neck forward, hoping to reach deeper inside her, maybe earn a little more praise.  
  
She hisses. You notice her tongue, when it flickers through her filigree of sharp, pointed teeth, is forked.  
  
“Ma'am,” you gasp. “A-am I just going to do this all day, or-”  
  
“Didn't you listen?” She snaps at you. “I only have another hour until...until...”  
  
Her tail lashes. You hadn't noticed the tail was ridged before, when it was covered up in her suit. Hot.  
  
“Until my associate gets back from the moist towelette store,” she says, loading all the acerbic disdain onto the word 'associate' that she can muster. “And pardon me, but are you trying to pleasure me with that thing? It's not working.”  
  
You murmur that she was the one who asked you to do it and are rewarded by her smacking you with her thigh. This time it's a little less abrasive than when she smacked you with her hand. Or her other hand. Or her foot.  
  
“Get up,” she tells you.  
  
You get up.  
  
“See that, over there?”  
  
You look where her finger is pointing. There's an exceptionally gaudy gold necklace hanging on a homemade jewelry stand made to look like a peacock. It has a fake-looking emerald stuck at the front of it. It is hideous.  
  
“Put that on.”  
  
You fidget a little. You aren't really into wearing costume jewelry at the best of times, especially not when providing sexual release to a very tall green woman who can transmogrify new genitals on a whim.  
  
“Now, please.”  
  
You put it on.  
  
You feel a deep tingle start at the base of your spine and prickle through your skin, which feels a lot coarser and cooler than it did before putting it on. You raise your hands to your face and see the webbing between your fingers fan out, along with your fingers themselves which broaden and become long and flat, utterly useless. The same thing is happening to your feet.  
  
You let out a horrified half-gasp as your spine curves forward and forces you onto your hands. Matted fur ripples down your spine and coats your hips, which now feel more like flanks. Your nose feels thick and heavy. Your nostrils expel more air than they ever have. Each breath fills increasingly bigger lungs, while your thighs shudder and sweat with layers of new corded muscle.  
  
And there's your cock. It's rubbing, insisting on making itself known against your inner leg, and it's big. It's about as big as your old arm was when it was still a human arm. You realize you should probably be panicking. This is bad, isn't it? You can't go back home like this. You can't work like this. Hell, you can't even stand up on two legs like this.  
  
For the first time, the woman in front of you looks impressed. She runs not one but two hands over your newly furry back, while another one rubs firmly under your chin. You close your eyes and rumble in response. That feels nice.  
  
Then your eyes fly open and a strangled whine falls out of your mouth. She's grabbing your dick. Not in a sexual way either, in a very aggressive handsy way like she's measuring a shirt-sleeve. She runs her fingers along it a few separate times, squeezing it from the base to the tip, then giving it a jaunty pat once she's finished.  
  
“Much better!”  
  
You think that she never even gave your other self a chance, which is a shame; she might have liked it. It's hard to think through the filmy miasma of hormones and animal static, so you give up trying to make sense of who this woman is or what she wants or what her name is. Instead you nose greedily into one of her hands, hoping she might skritch under your chin again.  
  
Instead she just goes flat beneath you like a rag doll. Her grin is even bigger. She spreads her legs and barks at you to get going and some sluggish, still awakening part of you reacts like she's jabbed you with a blazing poker.  
You go to her.  
  
You mount her.  
  
You rest your unctuous slimy hands on her heaving chest.  
  
The head of your cock pushes inside of her. She hisses again, eyes curved into slits of peeled apple, her teeth shining. She doesn't compliment you but she does make a breathy, frantic gasp when you thrust harder, which is a great motivation to keep doing that. She catches your eye at one point and winks. You swallow so hard it makes your throat rasp.  
  
“Isn't this fun,” she says breathlessly.  
  
You nod at her. You feel like your neck might give way from the speed and passion with which you do so.  
  
“But it could be more fun, if you wanted it to be.”  
  
You...make a noise that you weren't capable of making before wearing your collar. Your necklace. What? It's a necklace. Not a collar. Anyway. That noise was pretty weird. Like a gurgle, only even wetter and with more bass.  
  
She strokes your chin again. You purr.  
  
“Or more importantly, if I wanted it to be.” She's talking to herself again, which is fine, because you are very busy pushing yourself into her and enjoying how tightly and warmly she wraps around you. Your dick is a lot bigger now and shouldn't, by any rights, fit inside her, but she's shifting and pulsing around you to make sure you fit.  
  
When you don't fit she grows a forest of tiny, spongy tentacles from around her vagina and coats the base of your cock in them, which is almost as good as being inside of her.  
  
“Wait there a second,” she says to absolutely no one, and one of her arms grows to reach until it winds under the side of the bed. It snakes back holding a jar, and inside the jar is a writhing, tangling mess of worms labeled 'SECRIT SUPPY' in faltering letters, like whoever wrote it didn't have arms very well suited to filling out labels.  
  
She unscrews the lid. It's so neat, you think, that she has all of those hands, because she can keep petting your head while she unfastens lids. You whine when she holds one of the worms out, and it's like your human brain breaks through all of the magical fog to yell OKAY NOW THAT'S FUCKED UP MA'AM only your new larynx won't allow you to make most of those phonemes.  
  
To show your disdain about the idea of any kind of sexual play involving lime green, faintly-glowing worms, you stick your head to the side. She doesn't seem to mind your recalcitrance. She's dangling one in front of her own face.  
  
Her tongue flickers out to taste it and then she knocks it back in one. She makes a grotesque slurping, cracking noise as she eats it. You look at her, stunned, sickened, strangely aroused.  
  
Then she clamps her hand around your cheeks and forces your jaws open. The worm smells pungent and seductive all at once, not unlike spilled gasoline or burning grass. It's not something you think you should be putting anywhere near your newly engorged jaws. You try to keep them closed. She pinches harder.  
  
Then she just pushes it inside. Her fingers hold firm where they are. There is no space in your mouth left for swallowing besides the space occupied by that writhing, thrashing worm. You try to resist for a second longer, but it's hopeless. It tumbles down your gullet, tasting like burnt treacle and menthol.  
  
“There you go,” she soothes. She pets your head. “Good, good. Did you like that? Want some more? Oh, hell, take a bunch of them.”  
  
She mashes a handful of worms into your mouth, keeping your jaws clamped open with one hand. You're still reeling from the last one and now there are three wriggling their eager way down your esophagus, melting rapidly into you from the inside and causing that same madness static to intensify into a blur.  
  
“Ma'am,” you try to beg. Your lips curl back, forced to reveal row upon row of feral teeth. You snap them together, pleased by the sound it makes, pleased by the power, the potential of destruction. You try to nibble at her hands in hope of procuring more worms, or at the very least the chance to lap the worm-slime off her fingers.  
  
“That's quite enough, though. I need to keep some back. Heaven knows when I'll get any more.”  
  
You can see her physically fighting the urge to down another handful. Instead she violently slams the lid back on the jar and volleys it underneath the bed, where it rolls out of sight and out of mind. If your mind was fluff and cotton wool before, now it's a buzzing hive of desire; you don't only want to fuck her, with whatever you have available (you haven't done a check in down there but you are pretty sure your junk situation has intensified) but there's this insatiable sense that you could be out there breaking things, shrieking into the sky, drawing blood beneath your claws.  
  
You have claws?  
  
You raise one webbed hand up to your face and see them, little dark pin-pricks curling out of each digit. Cool.  
  
“Getting bored,” she warns you. She leans back against the headboard and uses one hand to toss her hair.  
  
You slide onto her, electric all over, shuddering with nerve-endings. There's an itching ruff of scales about your throat now – something you become aware of because she pets you there, smoothing them down. She pulls her knees up, drawing your cock deeper inside of you – and then you realize, with wild delight, that you match her now; you have a vagina too. It's dripping behind your cock, which has grown tapered and slimy. Your new hole throbs, empty.  
  
She, as always, is one step ahead. You don't see her shift, but you feel her. Her hole tightens around you as the skin beneath swells, solidifies, and then...  
  
You groan as she penetrates you, and simultaneously sucks you further inside. Your groan rips your throat raw on the way out. She cackles, a sound rich with insect clicks, and the thought that you pleased her enough to make her laugh tightens everything from your stomach downwards.  
  
Then you come inside her. It cleans your mind out in one fell swoop. You feel like everything has been tugged out of you from the tip of your pointed, indisputably alien cock; but then she forces every flesh-tentacle that had wreathed you inside your aching pussy and gushes you full with cum, and everything floods back with such intensity that your world swirls into an inky black.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
You don't come to until hours later, but there's one faded segment of time where you almost wake up, groggy with exerted energy, blood still pumping in your ears. You feel a roughly-hewn collar around your neck (later you will learn it keeps you tied to the door-frame and that it is made of puce velvet, stamped through with chintzy rhinestones). You can hear someone talking to her in a scratchy voice in the background.  
  
“But ma'am, I thought the idea was that I hid them so you wouldn't, ah ha, uh, use them, on me, or on yourself, or...”  
  
“Yes, well, you were gone for over an hour and there was nothing on TV. Did you see the haunches on them? This was a worthwhile investment, Big Deal. And besides, you can watch them go down on me after you've put the casserole in to bake.”  
  
“That's a really good idea, ma'am,” says the other voice.  
  
The feral part of your mind agrees, and lets that promise of the future lull the rest of you back to sleep.


End file.
